


Acclimatization

by insanityrenaissance



Series: Scion [1]
Category: Assassin's Creed
Genre: Angst, Bleeding Effect, Canon-Typical Violence, Gen, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Mental Instability, Murder, POV Second Person, Panic Attacks, Psychological Trauma, essentially desmond coping with killing lots of people
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-09
Updated: 2015-03-09
Packaged: 2018-03-16 23:55:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,886
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3507386
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/insanityrenaissance/pseuds/insanityrenaissance
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>by the time you've actually killed someone for the first time, you've slain a few lifetimes worth of people.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Acclimatization

**Author's Note:**

> First of a series of disjointed character studies revolving around Desmond Miles, because i have a lot of feelings. Takes place during the first game up to the end of the second as a sort of commentary on how quickly Desmond adjusts from being this ordinary guy to killing tons of people. My first fic in a long, long while and my first serious attempt at 2nd person POV so bear with me for a bit.

**i.**

Your first kill is not technically actually _your_ kill.

You've seen people die before, but the act of killing is a new experience entirely. ( _and at the same time it isn't— you sit in the body well versed in the art of murder, and your first kill is made with the same practiced ease you have mixing drinks_ ) It is not so much the sensation of flesh giving way to cold metal and the warm splash of blood on your hands _(no, not yours. this body isn't yours and this death is not on your hands and maybe if you keep repeating it you'll believe yourself_ ) that horrifies you as much as how effortless it actually is— you know it's harder to save a life than it is to take one, that it takes only a pound of pressure to break skin, but no amount of half-assed training and information can prepare you for reality. And as the body slumps to the ground you find yourself feeling satisfied, ( _no, that feeling is Altaïr's. you are Desmond Miles and this is wrong, so wrong, and you want to get out of this place_ ) not quite malicious in nature but the pride of a quick, clean kill, a job well done.

It’s that complacency that follows you throughout your waking nightmare, that forces you to bolt when the desert melts away into a white void and you’re brought back to reality. You barely manage to make it to the bathroom before you heave up the contents of your stomach, your muscles continuing to constrict and churn even after there’s nothing left to vomit. You want to curse, because fuck, this isn't a single shred of this situation that is remotely right, but you're too busy emptying your stomach to manage speaking.

Lucy has at least the decency to looked concerned and ashamed, but Vidic sneers and you want to wipe that look off his face and snap his neck in your hands. ( _it’s harder than it looks in the movies, but if you twisted it just right with enough force—_ ) The desire to kill forces you back to the toilet again, dry heaving continuing to echo through the too-quiet room, because that too, is a new and unwanted feeling. You are used to rage ( _you are an angry, bitter child, and you have not struggled to maintain your freedom for so long just to be locked away again_ ) but you're not familiar with this fury that compels to to dream of slitting the old man's throat, of watching his blood pool at your feet and _smiling_ at your accomplishment _._ ( _sometimes you see your reflection in his blood. sometimes you see Altaïr. sometimes you can't tell the difference and you wake up and scrub your hands for hours, hoping to god the smell of blood will come off_ ) 

With every kill you make in the animus, the nightmare become more of a dream. Altaïr's skill and experience rubs off on you, and as he slaughters guards and assassinates targets the concept of ending another's life fades from being a daunting concept and grows into a necessary evil. As long as you stay your blade from the flesh of the innocent, there shouldn't be a problem ( _how ironic, then, that your first was the kill that broke that sacred tenet_ ). 

It's only when Lucy comes to your rescue, your shining knight in jeans and a blood-stained high neck, and you watch her beat a man and find yourself evaluating her form, that you've realized how far you've slipped ( _murder is not longer a problem but you_ want _it to be. the feel of blood should not be the same in the animus as it is outside of it)_ If Lucy misinterprets your panic for inexperience, you let her, too far caught up trying to pinpoint the moment you started turning into a cold-blooded killer. _  
_

 

**ii.**

You've never wanted to kill someone quite like you've wanted to kill Uberto Alberti.

(you _is now a relative term, the meaning changing with each passing moment. you try to pretend that you're not having trouble figuring out exactly who you are.)_

But still, there's something extremely bizarre about wanting nothing more than to kill a man who's been dead for hundreds of years. Where most see Ezio's nonchalant front, you're given a front-row seat to the vindictive malice that the young man carries. Altaïr is by no means a saint, but like you, he was never raised with tender care and warmth. You hated Vidic to the point where his death made for a pleasant dream, but not even _he_ has committed an injustice against you such as this. To live in such a loving home, however briefly, just to lose it is enraging, and you find yourself seething and insisting upon staying in the Animus in order to exact revenge. 

So when you (Ezio, _you tell yourself, and then try to figure out what the difference is exactly_ ) finally track that fat bastard down and slit his throat open, the pleasure you get from it terrifies you. This is not like Altaïr, who takes pride in his kills and the fact that one more Templar is out of the picture. This is personal, but it isn't yours, and even as you slip out of the animus you can still feel the blood on your hands at the smile teasing the corner of your mouth. You spend hours pacing, torn between being satisfied at his death, still mourning your lost family, and absolute horror because none of this has anything to do with you ( _your name is Desmond Miles and you are not an Assassin. you keep telling yourself this and pray to god that you'll actually believe it_ ) but it doesn't change the reality of the situation. 

Uberto Alberti is dead. He's a man you've never met who's been dead for hundreds of years, but he's dead by your hand.

You sleep better than you have in a long while.

 

**iii.**

Everyone is grateful when the no one gives you any weapons.

'it's because you're not an assassin,' Shaun taunts, because he's a prick and likes making fun of you. 'at this point you're just a wannabe who thinks that shopping at hot topic makes them cool.' ( _he's like Malik, to the point where you sometimes mistake him for the one-armed Syrian when you're distracted by the phantoms sights and sounds of Jerusalem)_  You're irritated by his jab, and it isn't until later that you realize the indignation is Altaïr's, not yours. ( _though you'd never admit it to his face, you agree with Shaun. you're far from an assassin, far from the legends that are your ancestors_ )

But the tradition is a precaution none of you knew you needed until Shaun tries to rouse you from your sleep and you try to kill him. You're not even aware of it until you hear a woman shouting at you, and notice your vice-like grip around the throat of the man you're straddling. ( _you could've sworn he was a Venetian guard a moment ago_ ) There's a moment where you don't recognize the man you're trying to kill, and have to shift your sight into the familiar haze of Eagle vision to confirm that he is not, in fact, an enemy, and it's only when you finally allow yourself to be pulled off of him that you start matching names to faces and holy shit you just almost killed Shaun. 

Lucy and Rebecca deal with you and your almost-victim respectively, Rebecca easing Shaun through breathing normally again and Lucy trying to calm you down as you lose yourself in a white haze of panic. You're hyperventilating and stammering apologizes that none of them understand because no one speaks 11th century Arabic or 15th century Latin, and it's only after the two women have gotten themselves and Shaun out of the room that you allow yourself to relax, no longer terrified of hurting any of them. A few hours later leads to a lengthy talk in order to calm everyone down, and while no one verbally remarks on it, all of you are grateful that you weren't armed.

You're unable to look at Shaun as long as you can see the bruises your hands left around his neck ( _a reminder of your mistake, both in your assault of an ally and your ineffectiveness, and you're thinking more and more like a proper Assassin of old and it terrifies you_ ), but he manages to be surprisingly unaffected by it, continuing to harass you with sarcasm and derogatory remarks. You're not sure whether this is for his benefit or yours, but you're nevertheless grateful.

He also takes to throwing things at you from a distance in order to rouse you. You don't blame him.

 

**iv.**

When you're finally given a hidden blade ( _it's your first time wearing one but it feels so_ right _to have it_ ) it's in a rushed attempt to give you some means to protect yourself, but slipping it on still forces you to pause. ( _you are one step closer to where you should be, where you once were and were trying to get to. amidst all the convoluted memories this weight on your arm has been the sole thing to remain the same, and you cling to it_ _desperately as it keeps you whole_ )

With it you are a menace to the enemies that file into your small hideout. Your body is not yet acclimated to combat, especially long term, but your mind has been doing this for years. ( _it's only afterwards that you realize it's only been a month or so, and you laugh because you've grown tired of crying_ ) You are fast, and more importantly, you are merciless; there is no quarter for Vidic's men, no chance for them to get back up. You slash at the armed hands, tear open abdomens, kick in knees and turn attackers onto their allies. Before you know it Vidic's rolling away in his truck and you're surrounded by the dead and Lucy is joined by Rebecca and Shaun who gape at you for a moment before ushering you into your team's getaway van.

Their shock is understandable, you realize, sitting in the back while Rebecca readies the animus for another round. Technically, that was your first time in combat just now. Technically, that was the first time you've taken a life. But you feel more of a veteran than a new recruit, because whether it's the 12th or 15th or 21st century, people still bleed and die like they always did. It's another reassuring constant, the death of a man. ( _wiping your blade is more familiar than cleaning cocktail glasses now. your hands don't even shake anymore)_ You pause, expecting that all-too familiar rush of panic, but it never comes. Gone is the voice that screams  _no_ in both sleeping and waking hours and in it's void snakes in quiet, reluctant acceptance.

You've killed someone. ( _not Altair or Ezio, but_ Desmond Miles _has taken a life_ )

You've killed a whole _shitload_  of people, actually, and the way things are looking, you're probably gonna end up killing a whole bunch more.

Realistically, this should bother you.

But it doesn't.

You try not to think about it.

**Author's Note:**

> i was gonna include a thing about sparing borgia but i was lazy and didn't know what to write. blerg.


End file.
